#vorasinity

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—— 𖦏 ⌯⁍ * for just a moment, Boothill went entirely STILL . like he had ice running through artifice veins, making him stand statue - esque before the sight of the other . of course, reticle irises never stop a moment of movement . always adjusting, always studying even most minute changes upon one's skin . noticing even a strand of hair out of place . to experience being caught in the Ranger's eye is a daunting one ; & it was no less for none other than LA MANCHA .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * he doesn't speak at first, almost like he doesn't dare shatter ice - thin tension that's settled betwixt them . expression is hard to read : so still, too still . too neutral, but also so ALERT . a wolf would recognize that look on the coyote's face . the look of instinct & preservation, behind a steel mask .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * it breaks . breaks first with lips parted, a sharp exhale in a sort of huffing scoff . a laugh ? a sound of annoyance ? no real answer relieves Ashveil, just that typical cagey behavior he's come to know from the younger Ranger .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * ❛ ya showed up . color me surprised, old timer . ❜ the tone is light enough . skims across that sheet of ice - tension . scratches it, gingerly . but it doesn't break . but Boothill is all about his way of words . what he says .. does he actually mean what shines on the surface ?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * ❛ y'weren't gonna come say nothin' to me or Ninja Girl ? jus' gon' let us eventually figure out yer still breathin' ? ❜ & with that —— the first splinter .

the old gods made home within these woods. chased away by the arrival of the new ones, forced to hide in creeks, hollowed trees and shivering rabbits. every step taken would stir them, distant laughter echoing and pulling at whomever dared to enter these rotten grounds. it arrived in whispers, chatting into his ear, buzzing bee's crawling inside his bones and begging to be left out. he doesn't scratch at his flesh. not this time. the bee's get hungrier ( he can feel himself bleed ). he ignores the rotting corpse before him, half - eaten, dead eyes staring at him. sticky, gooey, melting. there is a god there. withering away: jesse swallows thickly, thirsty and hungry, the moon watches before it turns away.

other eyes watch him now. eyes that aren't quite like it but also not entirely foreign either. the old, withering god trying to survive in the corpse shakes before those eyes. jesse can hear the forgotten god speak. feels it on their tongue, their lips, their ears and eyes. eat me, eat me, eat me. the god wants to survive, to be worshipped and brought back to civilization where it can grow and become whole again. the voice seems to come from those eyes. from the fog that rolls across the trail and eagerly licks at their ankles. own eyes follow the mountain trail ... sees the struggles and the hunger of a hunt.

" I've made worse mistakes than this. " prompt / always accepting

ah, so this corpse had been prey and those eyes the hunter. gaze moves back to the corpse, sees what the hunter cannot see, and that is how the dying god breaks out of the corpse, first its many arms, then its head, soon the rest of its body. a birth. it looks at jesse and then the source of the many eyes. he sighs, dark eyebags darker now, as heavy boots carry him towards the struggling divinity. ❝ perhaps. but a homeless god is no good for the environment. ❞ maybe it made no sense to @vorasinity , fog dispersing, revealing them to jesse. but it seemed they knew that what they killed or tried to kill was nothing ordinary either. ❝ ... will rot an' the scent will carry a mile away. only attract more problems we don't need 'ere. ❞ he bends down, offers gloved hand to something already quiet dead. if treated right, this could prove to be useful for the soil. ❝ you can rectify this lil mistake by cleanin' it up. ❞ it being the corpse. that had no use anymore.